Masculinity on display, in all its sweaty thuggery - Machismo looks rotten in black comedy about murder
Liz Nicholls – Edmonton Journal – March 15th

Sergeant Filth and Constable Pig are interrogating a murder suspect.
This latter is a society wife – widow actually, since her husband is floating face-down in the pool – exercising her right to remain silent. Filth, setting the tone, is deploring the constraints of an age in which it’s no longer kosher to “beat the hell out of the suspects or at least show them the instruments of torture.” Pug is nervously deferring to his superior.

That’s the setup of a snarky little two-hander now getting its North American premiere at Northern Light after a splash at the Edinburgh Fringe.
Did I say two? I meant three, really, since the logistical puzzler of the cast list, consisting of Dave Clarke and Mark Stubbings, is resolved by the mannequin performing admirably in the silent role of the woman. Which cuts to the chase without dallying in subtlety. The “hard sell” in the title of Craig Baxter’s 70 minute black comedy is masculinity, in all its sweaty thuggery and brute one-upmanship. May I refer you to Exhibit D, a signed contract by which Kate’s husband has recently sold his wife to his business partner for 60,000 pounds (70,000 with the baby)?
Machismo is up for perusal here. And it looks rotten. Not least because Filth and Pig, who scramble to improvise re-enactments of the crime with its big-money hoity-toity participants, can’t help replaying the dynamics of their own toxic power struggle. Their amateur theatricals, with their sense of class grievance, are a major source of comedy. When Filth says that someone from the hoi polloi at sushi, he spits out the word like someone vomiting a rancid oyster. When he does the mating call of the moneyed male, “make me and offer, make me an offer, make me an offer,” it’s a simulated crescendo that’s like assault.

But Clarke is no mere concept. As Filth, the swaggering bully who sniffs out weakness and threat like a shark toying with a swimmer, he’s the thing itself. It’s a performance of unsavoury splendour that dominates the stage, the space, and the evening. Along with Trevor Schmidt’s clever staging which makes us voyeurs of proceedings in a dark, translucent mesh box, it’s the best thing about the production. Its sheer repelling menace and ferocity with sexual overtones (Filth’s hands stay in his pockets way too much) help us not to notice the play isn’t very hefty.

Think of it as a mood piece with a great gimmick, perhaps. Schmidt’s design and Roy Jackson’s lighting are striking and, as Filth says of Kate, “quality product.” If the dynamic doesn’t quite hit a dangerous equilibrium, it’s mainly because Stubbing’ Pig, resentfully deferential, is never as convincing as his counterpart, either in presence, accent or cadence. True, he’s replaying a scenario by which the underestimated secondary male gets his chance at comeuppance. But still…

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